


Can't seem to hold you like I want to

by hungerpunch



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-11
Updated: 2012-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:26:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hungerpunch/pseuds/hungerpunch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is Death. Originally written for <a href="http://ae-match.livejournal.com/23053.html">ae_match</a>, for the prompts touch, fear, and fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't seem to hold you like I want to

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'ed by the amazing, helpful, lovely [eternalsojourn](http://eternalsojourn.livejournal.com/) & [ravyn_ashling](http://ravyn-ashling.livejournal.com/).

The first time Eames sees him is at Mallorie Cobb’s funeral.

How does Death have time for funerals? He makes it. He has been granted the ability to warp time to his needs--like Santa Claus, except Santa has it so easy, Eames muses. Santa has to work on one night out of the whole year (despite that he might need to reconfigure the _time_ so that it is, conceivably, more than one night, but _still_ ) whereas Death never stops working-- _Eames_ ' job never ends. He never takes a vacation, never rests.

Save for these spare moments that he makes. At funerals. He does not attend them all, not hardly, but some; for the deaths that taint his mind for days afterward--and Mallorie Cobb's death certainly left a mark. Eames remembers all too vividly the way her dress ruffled in the wind as she perched on the ledge, beckoned out to the wide open space by his curling finger. He baited her, culled her in, willed her off the sill and into her plunge as her husband's screams ricocheted off Eames' back.

"Mal, god damnit, don't do this!" he demanded (pleaded), and Eames thought grimly, sadly even, _She's not. I am._ He left Dominic Cobb sobbing, splintering apart in the frame of the window, and floated down to the remnants of his wife. He coaxed Mallorie's spirit from her broken body; she rose as a wispy, silvery-blue representation of herself. She looked at him and smiled, oblivious of her surroundings--they always were.

"Who is this handsome man?" she asked, accent thick.

Eames laced his fingers through hers and led her away from the wreckage. "An old friend," he answered.

Now he sits in a pew near the back of the church, and perhaps the only reason he notices him, the younger man, is because he catches Dominic when he passes out, after having not eaten for several days, while standing next to the casket. He catches Dominic and lowers him carefully to the ground, wakes him up with a light slapping, some snapping fingers in his ear, a bottle of water to his lips brought forth by a petite brunette woman. Eames can’t help but let his attention linger over the man after the fuss has died down--he’s quite easy to appreciate, sharp and sable, and clearly redirecting his own grief to a part of his mind and heart he dare not access in front of others. Eames has seen a million faces and more, and yet he’s reminded of his own humanity when he finds himself able to still be fascinated by a person every now and then. He leaves the funeral when the procession begins, mutely fading through the stained glass of the cathedral.

The second time he sees him is, by surreal yet pure coincidence, when the man’s father dies. The fact that it’s a bullet from the man’s gun that Eames is directing towards his father’s head is probably of greatest importance. “Arthur, son, please n--” the father’s pleading is cut off by the pull of the trigger, the exodus of the bullet, the loud burst of gunfire that leaves Eames’ ears ringing afterward, ringing with _his_ name: Arthur. Arthur who stares, now, at the body at his feet, arm still extended, gun cooling in his trembling hand. A splatter of blood adorns his cheek like wasted rose petals.

Eames remembers his duty. He kneels, extracts the father’s spirit which comes forth a ghoulish, green-tinted shadow that blinks at Eames absently. Eames does not give him a chance to speak. “You deserved that,” he whispers. “He has centuries of agony under his eyes that he is much too young to bear.” The man tilts his head in confusion; Eames knows he has no idea what’s going on. “Come on then,” he sighs bitterly, taking the man’s arm and tugging him onward. “To whatever end your maker sees fit.”

As they pass, Arthur touches the blood on his cheek and laughs. Eames will later remember it as the only time he ever witnessed Arthur laugh.

It’s not unprecedented, Death following a human, but it hasn’t happened to Eames in an extraordinarily long time. He tries to convince himself, as he goes, that he’s _not_ following Arthur; he’s merely...checking in.

Eames trails at Arthur’s heels into the grocery store, watches him buy yogurt, a variety of cheeses, single chicken breasts, avocados, apples and booze. Eames lounges behind him while he debates between black cherry ice cream or gold coast chocolate, and wants so desperately to lean against Arthur’s shoulder and recommend the Pistachio instead.

Arthur lives alone it seems; alone in a city within his apartment--skyscrapers made of books, CD racks, shelves of DVDs; filing cabinets in every corner; black and white photographs of Paris, New York, Tokyo, Toronto, Berlin tacked, tasteful yet modest, along the walls.

He watches Arthur move around in his home, a restless bird, making tea in oddly-shaped terra cotta mugs, curling into one of his many armchairs to read Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. _Why don’t you take a lover?_ Eames wonders, observing him with gentle sorrow. _You could have anyone, if you wanted. If you tried._

The only real luxury in Arthur’s apartment is his bed--the sight of it makes Eames grin. It’s queen-sized and decked out in deep bistre sheets from Italy, in 1,020-count Egyptian cotton sateen; blanched almond down comforter; topped off with beige-striped, mulberry silk filled pillows (enough to construct an entire fort out of, Eames suspects).

Arthur strips methodically, a purposeful and clinical process that Eames feels bashful watching, and crawls into his man-made heaven nest, sighing. Eames hesitates next to the bed, looking down for a moment before rolling his eyes at himself and sliding into it as well. He holds himself half an arm’s length away from Arthur, peering at the expanse of pale skin, available now for his perusal for the first time.

What he sees doesn’t exactly perplex him (after all, he is aware of both the nature of Arthur’s deceased father and Arthur’s job), but it evokes his anguish nonetheless.

Without actually _touching_ Arthur, he traces the legions of scars with a careful, steady fingertip, each trail of raised skin a twisted, brutal nightmare that Eames wishes he could erase. _Maybe this is why_ , he realizes, and the strength of that possibility hits him, a leaden hammer in the gut. He lurches from the bed and rushes through the apartment wall, into the night before he can do something foolish, like try to hold Arthur and comfort him.

A week or so later, he sits in an empty chair across from Arthur in a quaint coffee shop while Arthur taps away at his laptop, intermittently sipping a latte. Eames sets his chin into the curve of his palm and drinks in the sight of Arthur’s bowed lips, which twitch in frustration every now and then, and his hawkish eyes. “You’re just so _interesting_ , do you know?” Eames asks to the deaf air around him. “Like a book I absolutely cannot put down.” He makes himself scarce when a petite brunette joins Arthur suddenly, bringing the crisp air in with her and almost sitting in Eames’ lap. He recognizes her from Mallorie’s funeral. He thinks for a moment that she might be there to work as well, but she pulls out a bundle of knitting from her over-sized bag and begins casual conversation.

Arthur’s profession is _almost_ as interesting as the man himself. Eames keeps vigil in the warehouse where Arthur works once or twice, observant more than ever as the men circle up their chairs, hook themselves into some sort of device that pumps a foreign liquid into their veins, and drift asleep. Eames wanders over to Arthur when the last of them loses consciousness, nearly dares to touch his forehead for a moment, quivering hand moving to his side in resignation at the last second. He wants to know what’s going on, but they have all gone somewhere Eames cannot follow.

The next time he sees Arthur is not quite coincidental--Ariadne’s death is not especially remarkable (in relation to, of course, everything that Eames has seen) and yet, he goes to the funeral because he _knows_ Arthur will be there.

When Ariadne’s card had come up, Eames winced upon discovering she was the petite brunette sometimes found in Arthur’s company. He’d taken her swiftly--a car crash that killed her in an instant. He figured that, at least, might serve as a modicum of comfort to Arthur. He’d gathered her shimmering, crimson spirit and ushered her to peace, listening to her ramble on as she had done in life so often.

At her funeral, he is horrified to find Arthur in attendance solo--nobody should go alone to funerals. Eames bites his lip and tries to restrain himself for all of a minute before sweeping out his pew.

With a deft snap of his fingers, he freezes time.

He washes up into Arthur’s private chapel of space, time, and misery; allows himself to breech all boundary as he arrives in front of the man, focused and intent. He reaches out a hand, unhindered as he plays alone in this continuum, and lightly strokes the back of his fingers against Arthur’s cheek. He stares into the darkened gaze, aching. “I wish I could stop stealing your love away, Arthur,” he murmurs, shivering at the feel of Arthur’s skin--warm despite his pallor. He rights his twisted wrist and combs his fingertips back through Arthur’s hair, gritting his teeth against the moan writhing in the back of his throat. “If you knew me, you’d hate me,” he mourns, eyebrows drawing tight with the knowledge that it’s true.

He steps back and releases time into proper motion. He’s alarmed when Arthur staggers, eyes rolling slightly, and has to check himself from going to assist him. Arthur appears bewildered as he gingerly makes his way over to a pew and takes a seat, scrubbing his face and breathing heavily. He’s lost most of the bare color he had to begin with and is sweating slightly. It takes only a few seconds of this for Eames to understand that, of course, this is his fault. His mind grows exponentially heavier upon remembering that his touch does not inspire comfort or joy in humans; that he can only ever cause Arthur chill, sickness, and, eventually, death.

He lingers just moments longer, hating himself, and it’s long enough to see Dominic Cobb arrive. He goes to Arthur immediately, touches his arm, and Arthur looks a little less ready to fall to pieces. Eames battles for balance on the precarious precipice between envy and gratitude as he takes his leave.

Arthur jogs in the mornings, through the fog that encompasses the city at that hour, and Eames drifts in his wake. Arthur stops, one morning, in the middle of a footbridge and looks down at the rushing stream below it, somber. A ray of newborn light splashes up against the drawn melancholy that is Arthur’s face and if Eames had breath, it would be gone from him now.

Eames circles him, floating off the bridge to look at him properly. “How am I ever supposed to kill you?” he asks. He wafts closer; his attention catches on a bead of sweat pooling inconspicuously along the rise and fall of Arthur’s upper lip. “What if I could find a way to keep you?” he asks, ever softer, though his voice will not reach Arthur’s ears at any decibel.

Eames continues to rove the world, transcending continent and culture to ease spirits from their expired shells and in the back of his mind, a constant presence, is the nagging idea of _keeping_ Arthur.

He is not the first to fill his role; he was not there at the dawn of time and he will not be there at the end of it--unless Earth deviates from its schedule, though Eames highly doubts it. He has studied his predecessors, he knows that not all of them did their brutal tasks in solitude. Some of them chose to keep a soul they'd taken, to train and use as an assistant of sorts. _It's perfectly possible, just bloody difficult_ , he thinks as he treads to and fro. The spirit has to be completely willing, and if not, then it must be broken down, torn apart. Eames has always found the idea particularly appalling--this cross was made for him to bear; he would be ashamed to spread its burden across undeserving and, even worse, unwilling shoulders. He has never wished his work on anybody else, least of all those he's cared for. Eames cares for Arthur more than anything, but his desire for the man is nearly parallel in strength, so that no matter how disgusted he is with himself, he cannot help but consider the possibility of taming and tailoring Arthur to a new purpose.

He intrudes on a late night conversation between Dominic and Arthur; they're playing chess in Dominic's house in front of a crackling fireplace and Dominic is winning. They're arguing, it sounds like, about the possibility of ghosts. Eames listens, rapt, hanging over Arthur’s head and wincing as the man unknowingly sets himself up for failure on the board.

"Come on, Arthur," Dominic tuts. "You can't honestly believe that. You're a man of science, for god's sake."

Arthur snorts. "I thought you said we were men of dreams." Dominic shakes his head and grins reproachfully, taking Arthur's bishop. Arthur frowns. "If I die before you, I'm coming back to haunt you, just to prove you wrong," he mutters and Eames’ eyes widen. _Would you?_ he ponders anxiously. _Would you want to stay here?_

Eames gets busy with the world; months pass with very little sight of Arthur at all.

He returns as often as he can, appears in Arthur’s kitchen one night after having spent what felt like an eon killing rebels in Libya. Arthur’s making dinner, a tea towel thrown over his shoulder, stirring something in an orange Le Creuset pot. Eames sits wearily into one of the two kitchen table chairs and looks at him. “I’ve never had a home, you know,” he says. He redirects his attention to his hands, folded atop a rustic red table cloth. Arthur hums under his breath.

“I wish I didn’t have to kill those people in Libya today,” Eames confides. “I want to see that nation liberated as much as any decent human being.” He rubs his hand over his eyes and goes still for a moment. “But Death takes no side,” he speaks lowly into his palm. He tilts his head. “You understand, don’t you?” Arthur chops a vegetable into fine slices. “I don’t _want_ to make most people suffer, but a death always has a context, and that context usually dictates the nature of one’s demise...” Eames waves at the air. “But we’re getting into complicated territory, and I know you’re tired.”

Arthur brings his dinner to the table--some sort of stew, a salad, a hunk of bread and butter. He brings a book as well, a thick tome of French poetry and Eames moves to hover over his shoulder. He sighs against Arthur’s ear as he reads along (the poem Arthur’s opened to is about forgiveness) and Arthur shivers lightly. “Thank you,” Eames whispers. “This is perfect.”

Arthur’s time comes up; far too soon for Eames’ liking. Arthur is 37. The truth of it crests over Eames one day, certain, and consumes him--a festering contagion. A lump forms in his throat that he can’t swallow and he turns to the gruesome task of plotting Arthur’s death. He knew this day would come, but he can’t stop himself feeling supremely cheated.

He strolls along the Po River in Venice, contemplating as its water carries on past him, swirling into whorls near the bank. _How shall I do it?_ Eames eyes the lazy eddies, miserable, chewing the inside of his cheek. _Going in his sleep would be least painful, but Arthur would hate that._

 _You could kiss him,_ a voice says in the back of his mind. Eames pauses, pursing his lips.

 _It wouldn’t be very pleasant,_ he points out bitterly.

 _But it wouldn’t be painful, or gory,_ his own subconscious retaliates.

He resolves to think on it. In all honesty, how could he not have thought about kissing Arthur? But he’s always yearned for the stuff of daydreams--gentle, slick kisses that graduate to fill one’s body with heat. Not...extinguishing Arthur’s life with a firm, icy press of lips. The idea makes Eames cringe, but as he rules illness too insulting, car crash too ordinary, suicide not worth the pain it’d cause Eames to conduct and witness, and death during slumber boring, the Kiss of Death becomes more and more likely; it’s contenders whittled away.

The decision is more or less made when Eames is confronted by an alarming situation one day.

He emerges from his travels, stepping into wherever Arthur may be and is unprepared for the explosive gunfire that swamps him, the barrage of chaotic noise disorienting him for a moment. He takes in the vast and unfamiliar warehouse and, in front of him, Arthur, crouching behind a stack of crates, M16 tight in his white-knuckled grip. His hair is a wreck, his shirt is stained red in more than one place. Eames’ thoughts jump between immediately wanting to figure out what the hell is happening or tending to Arthur. His attention scrambles again when Dominic Cobb dashes into sight from somewhere, flinging himself next to Arthur.

“Get out of here,” Arthur hisses, voice a straining thread pulled out from the crush of his clamped teeth.

“You’re hurt!” Dominic is heedless of his volume as erratic bouts of ammunition are spouted in their general direction.

“And you have kids!” Arthur asserts, adjusting the gun in his hands and daring to peer around the corner of a crate.

“If I leave you, you’re a goner.” Dominic mirrors Arthur’s actions on the other side of the crate and fires.

“I appreciate your faith,” Arthur grits, sarcastic even through the pain. He pulls back, leaning against the wood and breathing heavily through his mouth. Dominic does the same, concern alight in his eyes. “You can’t leave Philippa and James again.” Perhaps it’s the ‘again’ that gets through to Dominic because after a pause he nods in defeat, face tense. Arthur inhales deeply. “On the count of three, then. Go fast.” He doesn’t give the other man a chance to reply before he starts counting.

Eames has no choice but to watch.

When Arthur’s strained voice ticks off three, he bounds up with a readiness and energy he shouldn’t have, pivoting and executing a spray of bullets. Dominic shoves off the crate a moment after, keeping as low to the ground as a sprint will allow. He makes it unscathed to the emergency exit of the warehouse, ducks through it with an edge of panic jolting his movement, and then he is gone.

He’s gone and Arthur is down, a new splotch of rusty carmine decorating his shirt, near his hip. A weak string of curse words leaks from Arthur’s lips as he pushes himself up to sit, steadying his weight against the crate and closing his eyes. Eames goes to his knees in front of him, gaze flitting in frenzy, taking stock of Arthur’s injuries. His hands repeatedly reach out, to assess and reassure, before stopping mid-air and retreating, mindful of what the effect of his touch would really do.

Eames slows time down.

He knows Arthur wouldn’t die from these wounds, if given proper care quickly enough. But Arthur is, for all intents and purposes, alone against his enemies. He has no assistance, no aid, nobody to get or give him medical attention. Eames isn’t sure what the attackers even want--to kill (and if so, for what? Vengeance? Money? Sport?) or to capture (and if to capture, then most likely to torture, and the thought of this brutalizes Eames).

Eames weighs his options, which are few, and then surrenders to the knowledge in his heart of hearts morosely. A bullet flies in slow-motion above their heads.

He shifts closer on his knees between Arthur’s errant, splayed legs and leans forward, forward, forward until his forehead touches Arthur’s, the tips of their noses millimeters apart. “As usual,” Eames says, soft, “I am sorry.” He cranes his neck and allows the small distance to close. His mouth presses, concentrated yet gentle, against Arthur’s. Eames nudges Arthur’s lips open with his own, but not for any sensual endeavour. Instead, Eames draws a small amount of air through his nostrils and into his lungs, which exist almost purely for this purpose. A second suspends, Eames trying and failing to appreciate the warmth of Arthur against him at last, before he blows the breath into Arthur’s mouth. He shrinks away, and uses a kind, broad thumb to wistfully push Arthur’s lips back together.

Eames cedes his control of time. The gunfire, no longer muted-molasses sounding, is vicious and shrill and accompanied now by footsteps. But it doesn’t matter. Arthur shudders, lightly convulsing, and his shut eyes flicker just once before his body stills, death rattle lamenting in his throat.

Eames peels Arthur’s soul out from it’s confinement, rising to his full height as he does so. He’s pleasantly amazed at the hue of the spirit--exquisite amber, shot through with rivulets of mahogany and highlights of sunglow. It’s the most comforting color Eames has ever pulled from a corpse.

Arthur’s refined skull swivels, newly golden eyes seeking purchase, and they land on Eames. “Who are you?” he asks, dazed but still suspicious.

“Death,” Eames says, apologetic. He almost never tells the truth when they ask him that.

Finality kindles in the recesses of Arthur's gaze. He tips his head back a fraction in acknowledgment, eyebrows smoothing. “Ah,” he says. Silence. Then, quietly, “I suppose that’s all right.” He inclines his head downward now, but Eames knows he won’t, can’t, see the remnants of his mortal self, bloody on the warehouse floor. “Not that I have a choice in the matter,” Arthur adds, an after thought.

This stirs something in the forefront of Eames’ mind. “Actually...” he wavers, caught in the crossfire of wanting to spend the rest of his eternity with Arthur, the guilt of subjecting Arthur to even just the possibility of reaping with him, and the inescapable fear of rejection. “You do have...somewhat of a choice,” he pushes onward.

Arthur seems dubious. “Oh?”

Eames nods. “I would like to forewarn, it’s not the most appealing possibility.” Arthur gestures for Eames to continue. “You could stay. Here. Well, with me, I mean. You could work with me.” His anxiety forbids eloquence, his speech halting and taut.

Arthur’s expression reveals he’s considering it, and Eames can feel the intensity of his own stare, burning into Arthur, waiting, hating himself. Then Arthur shakes his head, and the hopes that Eames tried not to have deplete, crumbling into oblivion.

“No, please," Arthur sighs, tired and thin. "No more work." And Eames understands, even if it makes the dusty tomb that is his heart break. He bends his knees and scoops Arthur into his arms like he does when he carries the children's souls. Arthur does not resist, he is the slightest illusion of weight in Eames' arms, cradled there against his chest. Eames bows his head.

"Then I'll take you home, darling. I will take you to rest."  



End file.
